


Almost Two Years

by Mime_Paradox



Series: Children of Rambaldi AU [2]
Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: ...and the rest of the cast although they're not the focus, Alternate Take on 3.01--hence the title, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Jack Bristow's Magnificent Beard, Suprise character cameos, The Proper Part 1 of the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 19:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mime_Paradox/pseuds/Mime_Paradox
Summary: Sydney wakes up in a world that is no longer hers, and must begin to pick up the pieces, with a little help from some enemies.





	Almost Two Years

**Author's Note:**

> Last season, on _Alias_ :
> 
>  **Vaughn:** Syd.  
>  **Sydney:** Why are you wearing that ring?  
>  **Vaughn:** Since that night You've been missing for almost two years.

**Hong Kong**

She’d been provided with food—something to tide her over while whomever Kendall sent made the trip from L.A.  Now, as Sydney’s world collapsed around her, she willed that food to remain in her stomach.  She could not, would not, lose her cool.    

“There was a fire at your apartment,” said Vaughn, or at least the man who looked like Vaughn. Francie hadn’t been Francie, so why should this be different? _Please let him be a double_ , she prayed. “Will survived,” the man continued. “But you…they found remains. The D.N.A. was a match.”

“And you got married.” For some reason, this was the sticking point. Everything else she could make sense of, as a cover story—even the ridiculous part about it being the year 2004 and not 2002. But why would a double attempting to gain her trust pretend to be married? Was it simply to keep her disoriented?

“I did.” He looked down, not quite embarrassed. “They asked me to come to Hong Kong. The agency thought it would be best if you were reintroduced by someone from your life before.”

“They could have sent my father. Will. Dixon. They’re C.I.A. They’re from my life before.”  Of course, they couldn’t all be doubled. Isolation would definitely be part of the plan.

“I can't answer that. I…chose not to stay with the C.I.A. after your death.”

Convenient. It meant he could claim ignorance regarding any questions he couldn’t easily answer. “You're not with the agency?”

“No. I'm a teacher,” the double answered. That made less sense. With their salaries?

“This is gonna take me awhile,” she responded, entirely truthfully. Now that she knew what to do, she noticed that her stomach had stopped fighting her.

Normally, Vaughn would present no threat. Even with all the field time he’d gotten in the last few months, he was still no match for her. But this wasn’t Vaughn, and she wasn’t armed. She looked around for something she could use.

“They want me to bring you back. You can imagine what kind of investigation's being called. Hell of a way to wake up,” said not-Vaughn.

“How much time do I have before I have to go?” _The lamp_.

“They said they want you back as—“

She reached for the lamp and wrapped the cord around his neck.  “I don't know who the hell you are, but you are not Vaughn! Tell me who you're working for! Is it Sloane? Tell me you're working for Sloane! I want—“

She felt a pinprick in her neck, and the familiar sensation of tranquilizing drugs as they entered her system and worked their magic, causing her to release her grip on her improvised weapon. For how long would she sleep now? “Don’t. Don’t,” she pleaded, as the darkness claimed her.

 

\----

 

The next face she saw was not Vaughn’s, but Dixon’s, and Sydney fought to kill the wave of relief that surged through her at the sight of her old partner. Familiar faces couldn’t be trusted. That she had been handcuffed to a hospital bed didn’t help.

Dixon’s face look pained. It looked as if it had been that way for a while. “About nine years ago, during your first year as a field agent, you showed up at my apartment after a mission,” the man began. He’d been crying, she could tell. He also seemed much older than the Dixon she remembered.  “We’d been to Lisbon, it had gone bad, and you’d been forced to kill a man to save my life. You needed to talk to someone, so we took a walk, and we talked. You told me how surprised you were at not feeling guilty, and that you were worried that the job was turning you into someone you didn’t want to become.  I told you about my ritual, how every Sunday, at church, I made sure to pray for those I killed, and for their families, as a way to remind myself that no matter how evil the people we fought were, they were still people. I took you home, you met Diane and the kids, and you helped me prepare macaroni and cheese.” Dixon—and it could only be Dixon—took her hand. “Sydney, it’s me.”

Now Sydney was the one crying, as appearing strong was no longer important and survival was no longer a concern. “Where am I? What’s going on?” _Where’s Vaughn?_ The answer to that final, unasked question, now seemed clear, which is why she hadn’t voiced it. She didn’t want to hear that that had been Vaughn, in Hong Kong. Married.

“You're safe. You're at the Stafford Naval Hospital. You're home again.”

Heartbreak mixed with hope.

 “Sydney, there are no words to make this easy,” Dixon continued. “It was Vaughn who came for you in Hong Kong. And what he told you was the truth.”

Sydney felt her stomach churn once more. It had been at least nineteen hours since she’d eaten solid food, which is probably why nothing came out.  “Dixon, what happened to me?”

Before her eyes, Dixon aged an additional five years. “We don't know.”

The questions became a torrent. “Where's my father? Or mom? Have you heard from her since Mexico City? Vaughn said Will's alive. If there was a fire in my apartment, if you thought I was dead, how did Will survive? And where is he?”

“Sydney…”

“And Francie, is she dead? Did they find her body?”

“You have a million questions.”

“I have more than a million questions. I wish I only had a million questions!”

“Be patient.” That he could say that without sounding patronizing was a miracle.

“I can't be patient. I woke up like it was one night. I have a scar on my stomach I have never seen. Two years have passed, and I need to be patient? I deserve to know what happened to the people in my life!” She felt herself hyperventilating, and she forced herself calm, before it grew into a full-blown panic attack. Dixon watched, concerned, as he waited for her to regain her calm.

Sydney forced her breathing to become normalized. “Dixon, I want to see my dad. What is the big deal?” She did not need his concern.  She needed answers, and concern wasn’t helping.   

Dixon gave an exhalation of surrender. “Your father's in prison. He’s been in solitary for almost a year. The policy, without exception, is that he is to have no visitors.”

Sydney’s scattered thoughts now took note of this fact and seized on it like a pride of lions after an antelope. A concrete detail. “What, why? What did he do?”

She didn’t get an answer; whatever Dixon would have said was interrupted by the entrance of two men into the room. The first was unknown to Sydney, although his build and bearing screamed “field agent.” The second, was another much-appreciated familiar face: Eric Weiss.

“Dixon, we got something,” indicated the stranger, who motioned outside. He did not acknowledge Sydney.

“Excuse me,” Dixon apologized, “I’ll be back soon, and then I’ll answer what I can.” He followed the stranger, leaving Sydney with Eric.  While Sydney quite liked Agent Weiss, she currently found herself at a loss. Weiss was really Vaughn’s friend, and his presence, as welcome as it was, also made it impossible not to think about that ring.

If Weiss was uncomfortable, however, he didn’t show it.  “How you feeling?”

“I'm okay,” Sydney lied, instinctively. 

 “You look great.”

“You lost weight.” It made him look…not quite like himself. Not bad, though.

“Oh, thanks. Yeah—I gave up all the foods I enjoy; I'm miserable, but I look really good. Listen, about Vaughn—“

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she interrupted. “At least…he is actually married, isn’t he?”

Unlike Vaughn, Weiss did at least have the courtesy to look sorry about it. “Yeah.”

“Then I don’t want to hear about it, either.” Part of her knew she was being petty. Not even half a year had passed after Danny’s death when she kissed Will; months later, she’d reunited with Noah, and months after that, gotten together with Vaughn. If two years had passed since she’d…died, then she couldn’t begrudge him moving on.

 _Fuck that_ , said the louder part of her. To her, it was mere minutes. She’d been gone for a day, and she’d been replaced.

“Okay, then. I guess I’m not the person you should be talking to, then.”

“It’s okay,” she said, offering a reassuring smile to match the one he’d given her earlier. “It’s not your fault.” 

With nothing else to say, Weiss remained standing awkwardly beside Sydney. “Sorry we interrupted your time with Dixon.”

“It’s okay, I get it. There’s always a crisis.” Right now, Dixon and the other man were speaking about the matter. Her former partner had his back to her, making lip-reading impossible, but the possibility of it was whetting her curiosity.  “Weiss, can you tell me what that’s about?”

“Syd…”

“Weiss, please. I know I’m not cleared.  I need to see my dad, and if they’re not letting people see him, I’m going to need something I can use.” 

Weiss rubbed his eyes in resignation before saying: “Do you remember the Covenant?”

“I remember hearing about them. A small, mostly-Russian group taking advantage of the vacuum left behind by K-Directorate and mom’s group.”

“Right—except for the ‘small’ part—they’ve expanded since then. In any case, there’s this asset of ours, Kingsley—an engineer. He’s stolen plans for a new type of drone, and he was going to bring them to us, but we’re afraid the Covenant’s moved in to intercept him.”

“Where is this?”

“Last we heard, he was on schedule for the drop, aboard a train to Avignon. He’s been radio silent since then, but we’ve obtained intel suggesting that they might have taken him, or the plans, to a Covenant outpost outside Paris. 

 _Kingsley, drone, Covenant, Paris_. Not much, but more than enough for a bluff. “Thank you.”

Dixon re-entered the room. Weiss, now reunited with his friend, made his exit, leaving the two old partners alone once more.    

“Dixon, is Kendall still in charge?”

 “Yes.”

 “I need to speak with him. I just remembered something.”

 

 ----

 

Structurally, the Joint Task Force on Intelligence’s Ops Center was unchanged since she’d last seen it, but that didn’t stop it from feeling foreign to her.

People stared.

“There are so many new people. I don’t know anyone here,” Sydney commented as they walked to Kendall’s office. 

“Just give it time,” Dixon reassured.

Then, a familiar face, barreling towards her with determination. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” said Marshall Flinkman, as he approached Sydney, blocking the way forward.  “Excuse me, hello?  Hi. Sydney, I'm Marshall Flinkman. I work here. Tech Design and Operation here.

“Marshall, of course I know who you are,” Sydney exclaimed feeling the closest she’d come to joyful during this nightmare of a day. His face was like that as well—no sadness on him. 

“Oh, thank God. Sydney, it is so amazing to see you. I can’t even—when I was told you were dead, it almost killed me. Well, not literally, but you know what I mean. I even wrote poetry.”

“And you can share it with her when she’s settled in,” interrupted another familiar face—Carrie Bowman. Carrie Bowman, pregnant. With child. “Welcome back.”

“You’re pregnant,” Sydney blurted. She really needed to gain some measure of control. 

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I am,” Carrie responded. Her tone did not suggest she found the experience pleasurable or transcendental.

“I wonder who the father is,” Marshall chimed in, and Sydney managed not to look astounded. Marshall? And Carrie? Having sex?  Sure, they’d begun dating, but…

“Are you guys married, too?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.   

Marshall frowned. “We…decided not to,” he answered—although his tone suggested something more unilateral, Sydney thought. “We’re together, but we decided not to let the baby push us into it.”

“Syd, Kendall’s expecting us,” pressed Dixon. 

“Oh, right!” said Marshall. “The whole briefing thing. When you’re done with that, Syd, look me up, okay?  I still have to read my poem.”

“I will,” Sydney said, with a brief smile as she and Dixon walked away.     

Despite her frequent interactions with the man, Kendall’s office was a largely unknown space to Sydney. The Joint Task Force’s director of operations preferred to spend his time in the thick of the action , so seeing him behind a desk felt odder than it had any right to feel, and reminded her uncomfortably of Sloane.  After a cordial, if not exactly warm, welcome back, the D. of Ops went down to business.  “We’d like to hear about what happened last night.”

Sydney marshaled her lies. “Well, as you probably know, I woke up some forty-eight hours ago with no memory of the last two years. At the hospital, though, I had a memory—a vivid memory—of the interior of a building where I was held, somewhere in Paris. I also remember the faces of at least three of my captors.”

“Agent Dixon’s report says you recall overhearing voices, names?” said the sole person in the room whose identity was unknown to Sydney. Bald and around her father’s age, his eyes shone with an intensity that felt like zealousness. 

“This is U.S. Attorney Robert Lindsey,” said Kendall by way of introduction. “He’s our Justice Department liaison.”

Sydney nodded politely and turned her gaze towards Lindsey. “Yes, I heard them mention a Kingsley—an engineer of some sort. Dixon told me it was important.”

“It is,” Kendall said. “Scott Kingsley was an asset of ours who was going to provide us with stolen plans for a next-generation automated aircraft from a Russian defense contractor. We’d lost contact with him, and now we can confirm that he’s been killed.”

“By who?” Sydney asked.

“Our intelligence suggests that the responsible party is a group called the Covenant. And indeed, we’ve seen activity from their cell in Paris,” Kendall answered, helpfully confirming Weiss’ account.   “If that’s true and they’re the ones who held you, then you, Agent Bristow, might just be the ace in the hole we need," said Kendall. 

Lindsey’s face contorted into a sneer. “Assuming she wasn’t released for just that purpose.”

“What do you mean?” Sydney asked. She disliked the man already.   

“I mean we have no reason to trust anything you say.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Kingsley, Sydney has been inspected and cleared,” said Dixon. “There’s no sign of brainwashing or any mental manipulation.”

“Yes, but there doesn’t need to be,” continued Lindsey, unfazed. “If Miss Bristow doesn’t remember her captivity in its totality, we have no way to verify the accuracy of her statements. She could have very easily been fed false information, and released just so that she could impart it to us.”

It was, she had to admit, a possibility, and if Sydney hadn’t been bluffing, she might have even entertained the possibility that he was right. Right now, however, it was an obstacle.

Lindsey, it seemed, hadn’t convinced Kendall either. “Maybe so,” he said. “But I’m willing to risk it. Agent Bristow, we brought you here because we’re planning a strike on the Covenant’s Paris facility, and we’d like you to come along. I’ve already heard objections from Mr. Lindsey and Agent Dixon, who thinks you need more time before returning to the field, and have chosen to ignore them. But I would like your say-so.”

“You want me to return to the field,” Sydney repeated. It felt odd, having Kendall on her side. “Do I even have clearance, still?”

“You’ve been provided provisional clearance for everything you’ve heard so far. Further clearance would be granted if you decide to help us. Once that’s done, we can see where we go from there.”

Sydney pretended to consider her options. “I’ll do it, then—on one condition. I want to see my father. Right now.”

Kendall shrugged. “Robert?”

Lindsey gave a theatrical sigh. “Miss Bristow, just so we're clear, I have no intention of doing your father one single favor. Ever. That said, it's not your fault he's your father. And I'm not without a heart, as you will come to see. I'll get you in this one time.”

“Thanks,” Sydney said, managing not to roll her eyes as she did so. 

 

\----

 

“Sweetheart, you look so beautiful.”

Jack, on the other hand, looked terrible. She had to surmise they’d barred him from having any sort of bladed objects, which was the only explanation she could imagine for his truly ghastly beard, but that wasn’t the only thing wrong with him, and it took her a moment to figure out what.  With Vaughn, Dixon, everyone, there was the sense that life had gone on, these past two years, and that, by being alive, she’d become an invader. That wasn’t the case, with her father. His was the face of a man whose life was just now starting again, after remaining paused for two years.

“They told me you were charged with resisting authority,” Sydney began. Not the most considerate of starts, but she had limited time and too many questions. 

“Yes,” he answered simply. As always with him, explaining one’s motives for criminal action was for other people.

“Dad, I don't understand.”

“After you disappeared, I became obsessed with your death, with finding those responsible. At a certain point in my pursuit, I needed help. So I contacted the only two people I believed I could trust, given the circumstances. Your mother. And Sloane.” 

“You were working with mom?” If there was a silver lining to the confusion of the past two days, it was that it made the confusion regarding her mother much easier to ignore. She still hadn’t fully processed everything she’d said in Mexico City, or how Francie—Allison, if Will had been right—fit into things. She refused to allow herself to trust someone who had lied to her so much, and yet she couldn’t help but feel heartened by the fact that she and her father had worked together.

“And Sloane,” he repeated. “You need to understand, after Mexico, Sloane and your mother disappeared, only to resurface a month later as co-conspirators in a successful coup in Zimbabwe. We eventually learned that they’d exchanged several Rambaldi artifacts with the coup’s mastermind in exchange for cooperation and asylum.”

“What? Why?”

“I can’t answer that. Needless to say, contacting either of them without authorization is not at the moment legal, so after discovering that I did so, Robert Lindsey—have you met him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry that’s the case. Once I returned, Lindsey chose to make an example of me, so here I am.”

He looked less angry than she expected, given the circumstances.  He could be planning Lindsey’s death, or he could be resigned to living out the rest of his days in prison. She could never tell, with him.

Sydney pressed a button on her watch. “It's an anti-eavesdrop device. I got it from Marshall. We have 90 seconds.” A minute and a half for her father to save her life. "Dad, I don't remember a thing. To me, it’s been only days since I rescued you in New Mexico. I got Weiss to give me enough information for a bluff—let them think I knew something about this mission they’re running, and now they want me to join them. I just wanted some leverage.”

“Leverage for what?” He asked, his face giving no indication of what he’d thought about any of the things he’d just heard.

“To see you. They told me I couldn't, and I needed to. I don't know if I can explain what it's like waking up and having everything be different. My friends are gone. I have no job, no home, and Vaughn's married. You're in prison, and—“

“Vaughn's what?”

“He got married.”

She’d never tell Jack, but Sydney appreciated that this, of all things, was the detail that caused the Bristow poker face to crack. “Michael Vaughn is just a boy who was never good enough for you anyway,” he said, with uncharacteristic emotion.  However, it was not to last, as her father's usual lack of expression reasserted itself. “Sydney, listen to me. My investigation into your death became more disturbing than I expected. You must continue my work and find what happened to you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“The only way is by getting your CIA clearance restored, having access to my files, getting out in the field.”

“I don't think I can do this without you,” Sydney confessed. All of the pain he’d caused…she could ignore it; right now she needed someone unequivocally on her side, and he was definitely that.

“We both know that's not true, and you have no choice anyway. The C.I.A., I am certain, is uncertain about your return. You must get them to trust you again. If they learn you’re bluffing about your memory, it's over.”

She didn’t want to admit it, but she’d come to the same conclusions herself. But what was it he’d said? “Dad, what did you mean, the investigation was disturbing?” 

“Sydney, I knew you were alive. I made a discovery that you need—” he was interrupted by the beep announcing the imminent end of the anti-eavesdropping device’s effectiveness period. 

The remaining half-hour was spent on less compromising talk, the sort neither was terribly used to, at least with each other. It was, Sydney considered as she exited the prison, quite likely the best conversation she’d ever had with him.

 

\----

 

**Paris**

While Sydney often denied having fond memories of her time with SD-6, one thing she did unequivocally miss was the enthusiasm she used to feel whenever missions took her abroad. Not only was she traveling all over the world, she was doing it in the most exciting way possible. Dixon had encouraged her enthusiasm; soon enough, he’d warned, the world would become white noise, monotonous. She could be atop Mt. Kilimanjaro, and all she’d be thinking about would be mission parameters and the return home.

He’d been right, of course: after two years on the job, places became a blur, with everything deemed irrelevant or useful quickly forgotten. It was also the case now; even if it had been her first time in Paris, she’d still find it impossible to summon any excitement.

The complex before them, however, had no problem capturing her attention. Originally a nunnery, it had ceased serving that purpose decades ago, and had remained abandoned until it was purchased by one of the few Covenant front companies the C.I.A. had been able to identify. The building was supposedly being remodeled, but this was merely a cover story to explain the movement of vehicles and personnel; despite all the activity, the building remained seemingly unchanged.  It was also, contrary to her assurances, completely unfamiliar to Sydney, which made it all the more important that she take in every detail.

“Sydney, I know you’d like to see this through,” said Dixon, as they made their final equipment check in the ops van the Paris C.I.A. office had provided. “We can take care of this, if you’d like.”

Normally, Sydney would have dismissed this offer outright; that it was at all tempting was as good a sign as any of her complete mental exhaustion; she just wanted to rest until she woke up back at her apartment.

God, she still had no idea where she was going to stay.

“No way,” she finally answered.    Dixon she trusted with her life, but his current mission partners were another story entirely.  Monica Flores she’d seen around at SD-6 occasionally—was it Security Section she’d worked at?—and while Sydney was mildly curious about how she’d ended up in the actual C.I.A., she hadn’t been curious enough to ask.  Rounding out the squad was Tom Grace, the man she’d seen with Dixon at the hospital and a complete enigma. While Dixon had vouched for him, she had no idea what to think, and the hours spent on the flight had not helped her make an impression. He could secretly hate her, or he could just be an introvert; either way, she was not about to trust him with her father’s freedom. 

The plan was for them all to storm the compound, taking advantage of a jamming field created by Marshall in order to create confusion and prevent them from calling for reinforcements.  The tradeoff, as Marshall has noted, was that the jammer would also prevent them from communicating, which is why they would all stick together as much as possible, and why inside intelligence was so crucial.  They’d agreed that Dixon would take point, at least until Sydney saw something that rang a bell.  Marshall would handle logistics, such as they were, from home base. 

“Quarterback, you have five targets inside, one of them is standing guard near the entrance,” said Marshall, referring to Dixon. “The other four are in the rightmost third-floor room, on the other side of the courtyard.”

“Mountaineer, do you know where they’d keep their sensitive items?” Dixon asked Sydney.

“Not really. Didn’t get much of a chance to do much recon while I was being held. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Dixon said, reassuringly. Base, we’re ready to go.”

“Gotcha, Quarterback. Jamming field descending in three, two, one…”

The four C.I.A. operatives sneaked into the entrance, where they easily took care of the lone guard before she could do anything to react.  Forgoing the technically quicker path through the courtyard, they instead remained indoors; the satellite data suggested they were taking on a skeleton crew, but that didn’t mean they could afford to be careless and expose themselves. Within minutes, they were outside the room where the other four Covenant members Marshall had detected through infrared were.  After they carefully opened the door a fraction—it appeared to be some sort of common room—Monica lobbed flash-bang grenade: once it detonated, they stormed inside and quickly dispatched the disoriented Covenant members, who from the looks of it had been watching of all things, _Mission: Impossible_.

The building secured, Dixon assigned Tom to return to the entrance and stand watch for any unforeseen eventualities. After the remaining three agents tossed the room looking for the chip, with no success, they decided to divide the building among themselves—one agent per floor—to continue the search. By midnight, regardless, regardless what happened, they would all meet up at the primary rendezvous point at the van.  

“Anything familiar yet?” Monica asked, as she and Sydney walked toward the staircase and their respective floors.

“I don’t know. Kind off.” Fortunately, it seemed like she’d be able to get away with her lie. 

“You know, I really admire what you did, taking on SD-6. I’m not sure I could have done that, if I’d known the truth.”

“Uh, thanks,” Sydney said. Did the other agent realize that sort of thing was the opposite of comforting, during a mission?

“Anyway, I’m really glad you’re back, and that I got to work with you.”

“Same,” Sydney replied, the smallest lie she’d told yet, that night. Fortunately, there was no more time to continue the conversation, as it was time for them to split up and for Monica to continue to the first floor. 

It soon became apparent that the Covenant had not occupied all the rooms inside the building; about one third of the doors had been outfitted with new electronic locks, and those that hadn’t appeared to have been untouched since the days of the Solicitenes.  Grateful she only had to focus on the half-dozen remaining rooms, Sydney selected the one closest to her—the Mother Superior’s office, she noted with a wry smile. After breaking in, Sydney ignored the trappings of Catholic authority which made her feel as if she were being sent to the principal’s office, and soon found precisely what she’d been looking—a safe. 

With no specialized safecracking tools at her disposal, Sydney would have to improvise. Taking the office’s phone, she dissembled the earpiece and used the parts to cobble together a crude stethoscope. She had been about to use it when she heard a hum from her comm indicating that they were no longer radio silent.     

“This is ops,” said Kendall. “You now have a dozen hostiles arriving at the entrance. All agents, abort. Fall back, and meet up at the secondary rendezvous point.”

Sydney was about to disregard the order when she heard automatic fire from the building entrance.  Unholstering her gun, she ran outside and spotted Tom, returning fire before retreating further into the building: the reinforcements had arrived, and her team was about to be penned in.   

“Sound off—everyone alive?” She heard Dixon ask. Bulldog.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think we’re getting out through the front,” said Grace.  “We’re outnumbered and outgunned. Light armor, heavy auto weaponry, night vision, no gas masks.”

“Locksmith?”

“I’m all right, for now,” said Flores. “Found myself a place with some potential.”

“Mountaineer?” 

“No action yet. I think I’ve found what we were looking for, but I need time to confirm.”

“Forget about it, Mountaineer—we can’t provide cover. Get out of there. Everyone, scatter, split up their forces, and make your way through the exit when possible.”

Easier said than done, probably. The entire nunnery was surrounded by a chain-link fence; if everything had gone right, their Paris office driver had, after dropping them off, taken a moment to head to the back of the complex and create an opening at the opposite side of the entrance, to be used in case things went pear-shaped. Still, things weren’t supposed to go wrong to this degree. That they had suggested several suspicious things, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on those. They were badly outnumbered, and the Covenant reinforcements had the home field advantage. 

Sydney ran towards the nearest staircase, and was about to proceed to the first floor when she heard shots coming from above—either the survivors from the first skirmish had freed themselves, or the reinforcements were moving _fast_. Ignoring her previous instinct, she instead raced up the stairs and towards the firing. 

The first thing she saw was one of the Covenant forces, who was definitely not in a position to do more reinforcing ever again. Sydney grabbed his automatic rifle and pressed forward. She turned a corner, and saw that Dixon had been taken captive by two other Covenant members, and was being led in the opposite direction. Switching once more to her handgun, she shot one of the two enemies squarely in the head.  The second man, wasting no time, quickly repositioned himself behind Dixon and aimed his weapon at his hostage’s head. 

Sydney quickly assessed her very limited options. This wasn’t a stand-off that could last indefinitely. Dithering would only increase the probability that more Covenant agents would approach her from behind.  Her best choice, tactically speaking, was to risk taking a shot. 

Or maybe not. Was that…terror, on the Covenant operative’s face? There was definitely something there: his nerve appeared to have fled him, once he’d realized whom he was facing. Did he know something she didn’t?

Whatever the reason for his distraction, it couldn’t have come at a better time. Instead of stalling, the agent pushed Dixon in Sydney’s direction, and then used the distraction to run away. Sydney decided against shooting the escaping operative and chose to focus on her partner, who she now noticed had been shot in the ribs—the Kevlar had taken the worst of it—and whose face’s right side was now rapidly swelling, probably from being hit with a rifle.  Unfortunately, there was no time for first aid. “Can you run?” Sydney asked.  Dixon nodded weakly, and the two set off on their escape together. 

This was all her fault, Sydney thought as she and her old partner made their way to the ground floor. They might all still die, because she’d convinced them she could be trusted, and led them into straight into the maws of the enemy, all because she couldn’t bear not having her father. 

Miraculously, Sydney and Dixon managed to make their escape facing only minimal resistance, and were the first to make it to the secondary rendezvous point, a tiny apartment which served as one of the handful of safe houses the C.I.A. kept in Paris. Their luck did nothing to assuage Sydney’s guilt; it meant that Grace and Flores had been left facing the bulk of the enemy forces. If either of them died…

“Oh, my God, Dixon. You were right. I shouldn’t have come. I should have told the truth.” She was pacing. For the third time in as many days, she felt as if she were having a panic attack.

Dixon, who was bare-chested and dressing his injuries in the living room couch, turned his attention towards Sydney.  “What are you talking about?”

Her hopes of getting away with her lie irreparably dashed, Sydney began her confession.  “The Covenant base—I’d never been there before. It was all a bluff.”

Dixon’s expression took on a form she’d only seen twice, in all the years they’d worked together.  The first time had occurred when he, believing she’d been working against SD-6, confronted her about her loyalties. The second time occurred when Sydney confirmed that he had indeed been right, and that she was loyal not to SD-6, but to the actual C.I.A. While their partnership had survived both crises, the scars they’d left remained, and Sydney feared that further injuries would not heal as quickly or as fully, or at all.

“Why?” He looked betrayed and disappointed, but not entirely surprised, which was the worst part.

“I just…I just needed to see dad.” It sounded ridiculous as she said it, and unforgivably selfish. She was James Bond. She was supposed to be above all this.

Dixon, to Sydney’s surprise, appeared to accept this answer. He was still uncomfortably grim, but his face now bore signs of sympathy. “You saved my life back there. I may not be here talking to you if you hadn’t been there,” he said neutrally.

“And Flores and Grace may die because of me.” She didn’t know them well—at all, really—but she didn’t need to. She’d be seeing their faces in her nightmares, if the worst happened. 

“No. They may die—although I wouldn’t bet against them if I were you—but that might have still been the case even if you’ve told the truth.  Make no mistake: what you did was irresponsible, reckless, selfish, and dangerous, and I will support whatever disciplinary action is pursued against you, but you didn’t authorize this mission, and this whole night would have turned into a debacle with or without you.”

It was a reassurance as only Dixon could give it, free of platitude or condescension.  It was one of a hundred reasons why she’d come to rely on him over the years.  She hoped she would one day be able to repay the debt.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.  “It’s just—I don't know what to do. I—everything's wrong. Everything is upside down.” Vaughn, her father, Francie, Will…even Danny’s death and the truth about SD-6 hadn’t shaken her sense of herself so much.

Dixon, to Sydney’s immense relief, did not ask her to calm down.

“What do you need?”

 _What do I need?!_ Too much _._ What did she need _right now_? “I need leverage.  Robert Lindsey hates my father. He doesn't trust me. He wanted results from this. If I go back, he'll pull my clearance and he’ll never allow me to see him again. I can’t go back until I get something I can give him.”

Dixon, Sydney noticed, did not deny any of this. “What are you thinking?”

“The man who was going to kill you, I saw his face. If I can make a positive I.D., that could lead to the chip. Leverage.” It wasn’t a plan—it was barely a direction. But it was something. It meant she didn’t have to stop and consider that this might be her life after all.

“Based on facial ID? That’s not going to be easy. Less so on your own.”

A valid point. “That’s why I'm going to need a contact. A freelancer, not with the CIA. Someone with resources. Do you know anyone? All my names are two years old.”

Dixon frowned. “I can think of someone. But Sydney…”

“What?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

 

\----

 

**Zurich**

“Sydney Bristow. It’s been too long.” said Anna Espinosa, her mouth forming that unnerving predatory smile of hers.  She was always happy to see Sydney. The feeling was never mutual. 

“Surprised to see me?” Anna had always seemed strangely keyed in to the happenings in Sydney’s life; had she heard about her “death”? 

“In our line of business? Never. What are you drinking? I’ll buy.”

“Cut the crap, Anna. I’m in no mood.” And yet, she had to admit, seeing her nemesis did make her feel better. At least one thing hadn’t changed. 

“Maybe so, but if you’re here in need of a favor, then I insist.”

“Fine.” Then, to the bartender: “A vodka martini, dry, please.” Anna, Sydney noted with some amusement, ordered a Cuba Libre.

Sydney observed the bartender as he prepared the drink, and did her best to ignore Anna, whom she knew was staring at her. After an interminable minute, her drink was served. She took a swig, and realized she didn’t know why she’d ordered that specific drink. It wasn’t her usual. Maybe the explanation was lost along with her memories.   

“So. How have you been?” Anna said, with discomforting casualness, as if they were old colleagues. 

Sydney took a gulp of her drink in order to avoid answering immediately. How much information could she safely give Anna?  Not a whole lot, and the information she wanted to share amounted to even less. And yet, Sydney found it hard to summon her old anger.  Yes, Anna had almost killed Dixon, last time they’d fought; at the same time, it had been so long, since they’d last fought. Continuing to feel angry seemed exhausting, given the circumstances.  And she did seem genuinely interested.  “I’m terrible.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Anna, perhaps truthfully. “I felt like that, after K-Directorate went down. Adrift. Guilty. Angry. As if my backbone had been ripped away, yet I was still expected to stand upright.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. What had you heard about me? And don’t say ‘nothing.’”

“What is there to say? You were believed dead, when you clearly weren’t.  You’re here talking to me, which suggests that you don’t have any friends to call on. Am I right?”

“It’s worse than that. Anna…I don’t remember. The last two years, they’re a blank. _Where did that come from_? Had the bartender spiked her drink? If only. 

For once, Anna seemed somewhat less than in complete control. She gave her an appraising look, without her usual lewdness did.

“Now that, I haven’t experienced. But really, who’s to say remembering isn’t worse?”

“It can’t be. I can’t live not knowing what I may have done.”

“Really? Someone’s been coddled. Do you keep track of all the people you hurt since you became a spy?  It’s not just terrible men, you know.”

Sydney had been tempted to do just that, once she’d first found about SD-6. And yet, not only had there been little to no time for it, she eventually concluded she felt tortured enough without having to actually seek new ways to make herself miserable.  Ignorance could be bliss, if one wanted. “You may have a point.”

“Of course I do. And here’s piece of wisdom, free of charge: as bad as this is now? It will get better. Women who go up against me and survive don’t fold in the face of stuff like this.”

“Oh, please, you say that like it’s hard.”

“That’s the spirit. Now what is it you need help with?”  

“There's a group the C.I.A. has targeted. They call themselves The Covenant. They've stolen something I need to get back. I've made a visual I.D. of one of their members, but I need to put a name to his face. You're going to help me find him.”

Anna gave a “that’s all” shrug. “Sounds good. Just know, however, that I won’t be doing this for free.  I expect a favor in return.”

 “Fine. But I get to veto the favor. I won’t hurt my friends or betray my country for you.”

“Fair enough. So do we have a deal?”

It sounded too easy. “Deal.”

 

\----

 

**Prague**

Anna, at least in this instance, proved to be as good as her word, and within twenty-four hours she had a name—Gordei Volkov, a hitman who used to work for the MVD in Russia, and a mid-level operator for the Covenant—the location where he was slated to hand the data to higher-ups within the group, and a way to get there without raising U.S. intelligence eyebrows.  The plan, however, was all Sydney’s, and it consisted, essentially, of intercepting Volkov before he made his rendezvous.  Simplicity itself. 

Years ago, Sydney had one spent one of her many aimless Friday nights with Francie, Charlie, Danny, Amy, and Will, arguing who among them, if anyone, had looks that could stop traffic.  After an hour of good-natured drunken discussion, they had reached the consensus that all six could do it. Now she needed to do so literally. And if her dress and wig didn’t help her do that, well, at least they made her feel good.

Sydney’s costumes often had that effect: they were rarely what she would wear, given a choice, but they allowed her to feel not like herself, which in turn allowed her to focus and deal.  And tonight, she needed that help more than usual. Sydney Bristow was confused and scared and alone and grieving; if she failed here, she had no plan and no allies, and no future: even Dixon, who had agreed to cover for her as she went A.W.O.L., would likely not help again. 

The woman in the red dress—Joan, Sydney decided—was concerned about none of these things, and had nothing to be scared of. It was Joan who stepped into the alley Volkov’s car was attempting to exit and blocked its way.  

The car stopped. 

Sydney pulled out a gun from her wallet, a Desert Eagle Anna had procured for her and was very nearly too much gun, and shot out the car’s two front tires.  Volkov’s three companions, realizing it was time to earn their keep, exited the vehicle and made a beeline for Sydney.  Given the proximity, she might have been able to take down one of them, maybe two—not all three. Fortunately, she didn’t need to.  The sound of a sniper rifle shot rang through the air, and the first of the two guards went down. A second shot took care of another. The third guard, distracted by the new threat, was easily dispatched by Sydney.

Now, only Volkov remained.  He’d elected to take off, which unlike at the nunnery was the right tactical move but still made Sydney wonder what exactly had gotten him hired.  He was still within Anna’s range, but that wasn’t the plan: he was all hers.

 

\----

 

**Los Angeles**

Given the circumstances, it felt quite ironic that her return to the Joint Task Force headquarters stirred up memories of three years earlier and an entirely different organization. Then, as now, she was under suspicion, and like then, she had been forced to obtain some leverage in order to save herself.

She hoped Lindsey and Kendall would prove as accommodating as Sloane had been. 

Ignoring the protests made by his assistant, Sydney burst into the D. of Op’s office, where Kendall was actually meeting with Lindsey and Dixon. Given the red on the U.S. Attorney’s face, they’d been arguing—about her, she imagined. Well, no need now. 

“Agent Bristow,” said Kendall, his smile thin.

Sydney positioned herself between the three men, and towards Lindsey. She produced the recovered chip from her pocket and held it inches from his face before stepping back. “I have the plans for the drone,” she declared. “If you want them back, I need to have my father’s release authorized immediately.” No negotiation, no quarter given; if she stopped, she was doomed.

God, Lindsey really was the worst at keeping his cool. “Excuse me. We won't be blackmailed by a fugitive. Did you really think you could come in here and threaten us?”

“Yeah,” was Sydney’s only answer. And if it didn’t work, there wasn’t much else worth living for anyway. Taking the blowtorch she had filched from Marshall’s office, she turned it on and placed the chip inches away from the frame.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lindsey demanded.

“I want it in writing that Jack Bristow is to be exonerated from all charges and released. Today.”

Lindsey scoffed. “Kendall, talk to her.”

“I'm addressing you, Mr. Lindsey. I want that get-out-of-jail-free card for my father, or these are gone.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lindsey insisted, his composure collapsing.

“Director Kendall, please provide Mr. Lindsey with a pen.”

“I got my own pen, and there's not a chance I'm using it.”

“It's your call. You have until I count to zero—Five.” She pressed the chip closer to the flame.

“This is insane.”

“Four.”

“I don’t think she’s bluffing, Lindsey. She will destroy those plans,” said Dixon, who seemed, if anything, amused by the possibility. So she hadn’t burned that bridge entirely, then.

“Three.”

“Fine,” Lindsey finally said, throwing his arms up in surrender. 

“Also, I want to be reinstated as an agent with my former clearance level.”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s actually up to me, Agent Bristow,” noted Kendall. “And consider it done.”

“Thank you,” Sydney said, as she passed Lindsey the letter she’d previously drafted for him to sign. “Today’s the fourth, in case you forgot.”

“I know what day it is,” Lindsey shot back; Sydney could have sworn she heard his teeth grinding. 

 

 ----

 

Although Francie’s body had never been recovered—her double’s body was similarly missing—the C.I.A. had paid for her funeral and all of the associated expenses.  It was, Sydney believed, the absolute least they could have done.  Although she still had things that desperately needed doing—finding a place to stay that wasn’t Dixon’s, for one—visiting her friend’s grave seemed most important. 

The worst part was that they had no idea when or how Francie had died. Logically, the switch had to have been made sometime after Sloane had learned of her and her father’s double agent status, which narrowed things down some, but not enough, and not with certainty. Maybe the double—Allison—had been living with her for years. Maybe it had never been Francie.

 _I’m so sorry, Francie_. She’d been lied to all the way until the end.  And for what? It hadn’t protected her.

Sydney said nothing as her father approached her from behind to stand beside her. He’d shaved and now looked considerably more like himself now that he was in one of his suits, but one could still spot traces of his year in captivity on his face.

“I can’t imagine it will mean much, but I’m sorry about Francie,” Jack eventually said, with as much sincerity as he could usually muster.   

“Did you go to her funeral?”

“No,” he said, without a trace of apology in his voice. “Even if we had been close, I was too obsessed with your own death to think about hers.” Two years ago, she would have disdained that answer. Now it felt reassuring. Of course Jack Bristow would say that. 

“You know, if you’d like, we can probably get word of your return to Will.” The suggestion made Sydney smile, a bit. Maybe he had changed after all.  

“Let’s not. Not yet.” Not that she trusted witness protection, but he was probably safer there than in her orbit. And she wasn’t up to seeing him, just yet. 

“Let me know when, then. By the way, when you’re done, there’s something I need to show you. Not here.”

“Let’s do it now.” She’d done what she’d come here to do, and it hadn’t made her feel any better. Her father’s info probably wouldn’t either, but it’d at least distract her from her own thoughts. 

The appropriate “here,” it turned out, was the subbasement where she and Vaughn used to meet. Jack had brought with him a laptop; after the screen hummed to life, he went through his documents, opened a video file, which began playing.  

“Almost a year after your apparent death, I was on an operation. I was tasked with tracking this man”—he pointed at the screen, which now played silent black-and-white surveillance footage of someone in an office—“Adrian Lazarey, a Russian diplomat. Is he at all familiar to you?”

Sydney stared at the footage and pondered. She’d met countless people as a spy—more, if one counted the ones she interacted with without ever getting to know—and she’d developed a fairly reliable memory for faces. This one rang absolutely no bells.  “Sorry, no. Where’s this from?”

“This was from a camera I hid in his office,” Jack explained. “He’d been in contact with Sloane, and we were hoping this would give us a lead regarding his plans. In any case, this is how I knew you were alive.”

Sydney watched as the man, Lazarey, did unremarkable work around the office. She was about to ask Jack what about the footage was so important when another person entered the frame, a young woman with her back to the camera.  The woman was apparently known to Lazarey, given his reaction, and while he was tense, it seemed to Sydney that the woman was not the source of the tension, so when she stepped behind the diplomat and slit his throat, it came as a surprise to Sydney, just as it had Lazarey.  Worse still, however, was the flash of recognition as the woman’s face finally became visible.

Sydney recoiled in horror. 

“You can understand now why I knew you were alive, and why I couldn’t tell the C.I.A.”

It made perfect sense now. She has been wondering, since her father’s confession, how he could know she was alive and not tell anyone, particularly if he had irrefutable evidence.  That mystery, at least, had been solved. As strained as their relationship sometimes was, he would never turn her in for murder. 

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, in case anyone did: yes, Monica Flores is meant to be Marisol Nichols' conspiracy chick character from season 2.
> 
> Also, F.Y.I.: I'm not sure it needs to be said—I feel it's fairly intuitive—but this is the true first chapter of the AU series. The other work, _It Was Then that She Realized..._ is part of the same AU, but not part of the core story.


End file.
